What Was This All About
by skyward.eyes
Summary: He could feel the thick warm-bitterness of the wine flowed down his throat and to his stomach. For a moment he thought that he was dreaming, for he was always a tad obsessed with the Briton. MARCUS/ESCA. Ch.2 is optional.
1. Chapter 1

**What Was This All About?**

A Fan fiction based on _The Eagle_ (2011)

**Summary:**

He could feel the thick warm-bitterness of the wine flowed down his throat and to his stomach. For a moment he thought that he was dreaming, for he was always a tad obsessed with the Briton.

**Disclaimer:**

_The Eagle_ (2011) is a courtesy of the legal makers.

* * *

* * *

**What Was This All About?**

"You're to be granted an honorable retirement, Sir," said Lutorius, "because of your wounds."

Stephanos, Marcus' uncle, told the soldier to leave because it would be no use staying in the room any longer. Lutorius left blank-faced, as if the news he'd carried contained no weight. There was not even the slightest hint of smile, nor a curl in his lips caused by an unspoken disdain. Nothing. His steps were light. The news could've just been "it's raining outside, Sir".

Lutorius' voice lingered until for a long time since he'd left the room, followed by Stephanos. Marcus was left alone, staring at the golden bracelet engraved with the words that all of a sudden looked alien to him. _Honor_. _An honorable retirement._ What could any of those things told been any good to his wounded leg?

He let out a long, loud scream.

When it ended, what left to him was the same ear-piercing silence.

* * *

The same afternoon after the news, Stephanos took Marcus out on a walk to a nearby coliseum. It was a small, round arena with wooden walls and roughly-cut wooden benches. There were a lot of people cheering, looking at the center of the arena. Marcus took a seat next to his uncle and watched the circumstance with a certain indifference reserved for himself. He could not find even a single justification on why he should be cheering with the rest of the crowd, even when Stephanos started cheering at the top of his lungs, he still could not find the right justification so he remained quiet, staring at the slice of the sky seen through the high wooden walls. He couldn't concentrate. _You're to be granted an honorable retirement, Sir._ When ever he heard the voice in his head, he wanted to scream. He thought about his father's lost honor which was stolen along with the Eagle. He thought about the first team he led as a Centurion. He thought about the night he lanced the Druid's heart. He could still smell the dust, the blood, the drying blood. He could still hear the screams. _You're to be granted an honorable retirement, Sir_, was all that left.

He didn't know what good the retirement would bring him. They could've wait until his leg got completely restored. They could've wait.

"HE'S A SLAVE!" a man screamed loudly, "always, a gladiator against a slave—it's not fair!"

Marcus snapped back to reality. Walking out of a giant cage surrounding the center of the stage, the most beautiful man he'd seen his entire life.

* * *

The man exuded a strange contradiction about him. His posture, although slim, was strong-looking. He struck Marcus as a fighter type, less a slave. But then the man walked towards the gladiator then threw away his sword and his shield altogether. _I want to die_, his dark eyes seemed to be saying, but they carried a strange stream behind them. Almost unreadable, like a telepathic talk, they seemed to be saying:_ I'd rather live. I want to live. I _need_ to live._

His face was badly bruised, around his left upped arm a tattoo of ancient characters. The crowds cheered even louder than before when the gladiator punched his face with a force strong enough to break the neck of a child. Marcus watched the man as he stood back up. Marcus noticed that his eyes carried an unlikely sharpness, as if he was challenging the gladiator mentally. He could've already seen that the gladiator felt intimidated, that was why he started getting aggressive. The crowds cheered in excitement when two more punches smashed the man's jaw, followed by a hit on his left arm using the shield. The man grunted and fell on the ground. This time he didn't even try to stand back up. He just lay there, staring emptily at the sky. It was the moment when his dark eyes met Marcus' by chance. Marcus felt as if the unseen membrane which was surrounding him was broken. _You can save me_, the man's dark eyes seemed to be saying. To the gladiator he retained his sharp glare. _Get it over with_, he seemed to be telling the gladiator.

The crowds let out the loudest cheer compared to the previous moments. They raised their right thumbs upside down amidst the screams "Die! Die! Die". Marcus retained his silence. Stephanos was cheering with crowds, "Kill him!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. By now Marcus had almost completely forgotten about the 'honorable retirement'. He found himself seeing deeply into the man's eyes, which was far from him. He was not even sure that the man was really looking at him, although his dark eyes seemed to be telling him: "You can save me."

* * *

_You can save me_, his eyes seemed to be telling him. The gladiator had the tip of his sword atop the man's neck, ready to hole his throat. Marcus felt his leg muscles tightening. He wanted to stand up, he _needed_ to stand up.

He ignored the pain caused by the fractured bones and stood up. Contrary to the crowds, he raised his thumb up. Along with the action he shouted, "Live! Let the man live, you fool!" he repeated the shouts several times. Like a ripple caused by an unseen force was sweeping through, the crowds started changing their minds. They started turning their thumbs up. Down there, the gladiator looked disappointed. He felt like cursing the sky, the earth, the dust, even the man's dark eyes.

Their eyes met again. This time Marcus was sure that the man lying on the ground was really looking at him. _You can save me_, it was a sure whisper sent like a strong pulse towards him. "Let the man live, you fool!" Marcus shouted louder. More people changed their minds. Stephanos was baffled by Marcus' sudden act. Marcus looked at the man again; he was _really_ looking at him, the slave. _YOU CAN SAVE ME. YOUCANSAVEME._

"LET THE MAN LIVE!" his final shout changed most people's minds.

The man was let live.

* * *

Marcus retained the look in the man's eyes in his memory. Even though he was sending the look that he wanted to be saved, at the same time he wanted to die.

For several moments until the crowds halt their screams and the sky turned into a warm honey shade, Marcus thought of the man; his well-tanned skin, his figure which was lithe as a dancer's, his dark eyes. The eyes that were filled with strange contradictions.

He didn't even know his name.

* * *

The next morning Stephanos woke him with a friendly call.

"We got you a slave," he said.

Marcus forced himself to regain his consciousness quickly when the white morning lights bathed the room's wooden furniture in a shade two steps lighter.

"Come," said Stephanos.

A man walked into the room. Dark eyes, hair in the shade of dark chocolate, a slim figure lithe as a dancer's, a tattoo of ancient characters around his upper left arm. Another strange contradiction; he was walking his face down, but at the same time his posture carried a strange conceitedness, almost pride. Marcus understood it now: it seemed as if the man could hardly link his consciousness and sub-consciousness. Marcus tried not to smile when the man walked closer towards his bed. The broken-white shade of the linen clothes looked good against his well-tanned skin, he thought.

"We bought him yesterday," said Stephanos, "his name is Esca."

This time, with only a short distance between them, Marcus was _really_ sure that Esca was _really_ looking at him, Esca _and_ his dark eyes.

* * *

Esca did every thing with great precisions, yet he didn't talk much. Marcus knew it right away that the young man was a melancholic perfectionist. All the time his eyes retained the contradiction, something Marcus had started to be familiar with. There were times when those eyes said as if he was more than a slave, but there were times, too, when those eyes said that he'd rather be a slave. One time there would be a silent boldness, other time despair. He walked through the corridors, into and out Marcus' room with an expression somewhere between sadness and anger. He noticed the Briton with an increasing curiosity of someone trying to decode a cipher code, all the time he failed, right before the very point was reached. Esca remained a close, but distant figure, and his eyes retained something Marcus had almost known.

* * *

One night, Esca let his guard down. Like a wall that vanished all of a sudden, it just happened. Marcus had just polished off two glasses of wine and sat on his bed, reading, while the beautiful slave suddenly came into his room carrying a bronze glass filled with wine. Marcus thought that Esca had taken a wrong order, for he didn't ask for any more wine. But Esca's eyes were filled with a strange kind of longing with a strange intensity that he didn't dare to decline his coming into the room.

Marcus put the book face-down on the small wooden desk next to his bed. Esca stopped when he had reached the edge of Marcus' bed.

"Come," Marcus said, "bring me the wine."

Something's wrong with this man, Marcus thought. His dark eyes had even temporarily lost all the contradictions they once possessed. He didn't know for exactly how long those eyes would lose their usual intensity. It was something he could hardly fathom. Even arranging an impromptu battle plan against the Druids several nights ago was way easier, he thought. Esca's eyes said nothing, confirmed nothing, contradicted nothing.

Esca remained where he stood.

"Come now," Marcus said, "you don't expect me to take the wine from you, do you?" he tried to retain his Roman pride while talking to the beautiful slave. But damned as his head and mind were, Esca was too beautiful. The beauty alone could burn his eyes.

Esca didn't move even the slightest bit. Marcus felt his heart pondering. The beats were so strong he thought his ribs would explode. He held the weight of his body on his right elbow so that he could sit on the bed.

"Esca," he said another time, "you hear me, didn't you?" Marcus stood up from the bed and walked towards Esca. Were there any trace of Roman pride left in him, he'd since a several moments ago lost track of them. "I want you to bring me the wine."

Just when Marcus was about to take the bronze glass from his hand, Esca raised the glass to his thin lips and took a long, leisurely sip. Right after he finished taking the long, leisurely sip, Esca threw the glass away, cupped the Roman's face and kissed him while transferring the wine he'd previously drank. As the wine went down his throat, Marcus could hear the clanking sound of the bronze glass hitting the ground.

Marcus' mind went blank, the way a dark room after the last candle got blown out. He felt Esca's lips on his. They were tracing every millimeter of the contour of his lips. He could feel the thick warm-bitterness of the wine flowed down his throat and to his stomach. For a moment he thought that he was dreaming, for he was always a tad obsessed with the Briton. He thought he was dreaming, so he touched Esca's back, traced it for a while before sliding his hands underneath the sheer linen shirt. He imagined Esca's sun-kissed skin as he did that. It was rough. It smelled like dust, like the dry scent of the earth beat down by the harsh rays of the sun. His aroma was unlikely: a perfect mixture of masculinity and femininity, a dancer and a fighter.

They remained pressed against each other, kissing for a long time. It was like a scene cut right out of a reverie. Then all of a sudden, as if something had sipped into Esca's skin and got him possessed, he spoke to Marcus under his breath:

"_Is tusa cúis mo mharthain._"

* * *

"_Is tusa cúis mo mharthain._"

The next thing Marcus knew Esca was trying to submit himself completely to him. Marcus didn't know what this was all about. It was as if something had forced him to drink some strange medicine that triggered him into dreaming the scenes. He was holding Esca's now naked body, he could trace the firmness of his well-built muscles, he could feel his hair between his fingers, he could feel Esca's breaths on his neck alright but for him the entire scene was not convincing enough. Every thing looked like a façade, arranged by some people whose face he couldn't even see.

He led Esca to his bed and laid him down. Before he started kissing him, Marcus took his time to look into Esca's dark eyes for a while. There was no contradiction. They said nothing, confirmed nothing. This got him baffled. Esca's soul seemed as if it was wondering somewhere, waiting for the body to complete the duty as a host to be in union with the Roman's.

Their lips met. Their breaths warmed each other's face. As Marcus held Esca's closer, caressing him all over, the scene slowly gained its realness. Marcus closed his eyes as he moved his hands to the center of the Briton's flesh. He imagined the color of Esca's skin, eyes, his movements, his smile that, all the time, almost too faint to be noticeable, but this time, inside his room, with the slave's body under his, he felt a strange delight blasting in his heart like a secret joy. He felt this strange reunion was worth while, and for a moment he lost his sense of time, of dignity, of intelligence. Esca could be a slave for all he cared, but all he kept on caressing him nonetheless, enjoying his soft moans the way he took pleasures in listening the sound of the rain.

Esca was caressing Marcus' skin slowly with his body. The movements were sensuous, almost like an erotic dance. He felt as if he could come anytime now, without even sliding inside the slave. Spears of light flashed before Marcus' eyes. Before his eyes, the mental images of Esca's expressions, movements, the candlelit room, even the entire scene kept changing intensity: one time it would feel so real, other time all the previous intensity would be entirely gone, like footsteps rinsed away by the rain.

Esca pulled Marcus closer. Using his movements he conjured up the language only known by the flesh. Marcus deciphered it right away: longing. A longing so strong he could barely think about anything else but having the Roman inside him, leaving traces that, like the movements, only known by the flesh. Marcus felt Esca's warm tongue on his throat, his collarbones, his chest. He ended the licking with a kiss. _He really _is_ a perfectionist_, Marcus thought, _even the intensity of his kisses is right_. Marcus felt like cutting Esca's head off, then yank it to see what ever would come off it.

When he finally slid inside Esca, the Briton was ready as he was strong. This time the slave could barely hide his calmness. He had even started showing resistances. Very beautiful resistances, they were. He thrust inside Esca, slowly raising the pace by each passing time. Esca moaned, and squirmed. His sweat smelled like a rare perfume. The smell of his sweat carried the roughness of dust and sun. Esca buried his nails on Marcus' back. He whispered to the Roman's ear in Gaelic which to Marcus sounded more like a repeated song. Marcus felt his body's heat increasing. The desire which he'd hid for a long time to take Esca to his chamber, lay him on his bed, and slide inside him exploded to an unfathomable limit, clear and indefinable as a clear night sky, the flow rapid like as a river's.

Then he came.

* * *

The next morning Esca was gone. The traces of last night's lovemaking were there alright, even the book he'd left face-down was there unmoved, but there was no Esca. Marcus woke up with his body wrapped nicely in a linen covering. When he sat himself on the bed he felt his head throbbing. Probably it was because of the night wind, because the windows were not properly closed.

Someone knocked on his door. He quickly dressed, then told whoever that was to go in. It was Esca; Esca with his dark-chocolate hair, dark eyes, well-tanned skin, and a set of worn-out linen clothing. He'd knocked to bring Marcus a large glass of water. Marcus watched him with his eyes narrowed. Probably last night's lovemaking was really a façade, for all he'd cared. He watched Esca as the Briton walked towards him, trying to recall his natural scent which he produced when he got aroused, the slight roughness of his skin. He looked at the tattoo showed and hidden from underneath the short sleeve as the slave approached him with the glass in his hands.

"Your water," said Esca. When Marcus heard his voice, he recalled Esca's whispers in Gaelic from last night; those words which to him sounded like a song.

Marcus wanted to ask Esca whether last night he really came into his room and kissed him while transferring the wine from his mouth to his, whether he'd really buried his nails on his back, whether he'd really felt Marcus inside him, even whether he'd really whispered those words in Gaelic as if he was inside some kind of trace. Marcus was about to open his mouth when all of a sudden he thought that every thing could as well as be a strange dream, and even if he had to ask, he would not have known what kind of sentence he should use to start the question. If it was a dream, he would be in hot water, desiring over a slave like that. He held the questions to himself, drank the water in two long swigs, when he raised his face he saw a faint hint of smile played across the Briton's lips. Still, what was this all about?

The contradiction had returned to Esca's dark eyes. He was conceited as he was insecure. He assumed that he was a slave, yet he confronted in himself the statement that he was more than that. Not a noble person, but certainly wasn't your typical slave.

Marcus said nothing, but letting his eyes followed Esca as he walked back towards the door.

What was this all about, indeed, _what was this all about._

**FIN

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

"_Is tusa cúis mo mharthain." –_ "You're the reason of my existence_."_

I love Esca. Not only that Jamie Bell is really a handsome man with a face as interesting as Adrien Brody's, but the character he played certainly possessed a charm in his own too, don't you think? Esca no doubt knew that he was strong enough to go on fights, but he was locked inside his personal circle of insecurity.

I love the pairing, too, in war movies, slash pairings are as rare as a golden sheep. After Stellios and Astinos' _unlikely_ friendship in _300_, there's almost no other good pairing. So, being able to watch a movie with a real slash element in it is a real, pure delight. Marcus and Esca look good together. They should've shot a scene as burning-hot as Nina and Lily's in _Black Swan_, which would be even a greater delight!

THANK YOU FOR TAKING TIME TO READ AND REVIEW!


	2. Farnorth Lover : Bonus chapter

**Far-north Lover**

Esca's voice: _What Was This All About._

_Something I'd written a long time ago, recently edited._

_This piece is for my readers who are kind enough to have added_ What Was This All About_ to their Story Alerts and Favorites. A special present. :-)_

**Summary:**

"My Roman master, sometimes when I thought about him I touched myself at night where he was still deep in sleep. He knew nothing about this either. I traced every inch of my body, feeling the warm flesh, the hardening organ as if some kind of gravity was inside it."

**Disclaimer: **I just own the plot.

* * *

**Far-north Lover**

OUTSIDE, THE GARDEN WAS BATHED IN SILVER LIGHT. The entire scene resembled a fever that had seeped inside me: changing directions, shaking things, breaking grounds.

The room was dimly-lit: most candles were off already. He was lying on the bed, clad in a light linen clothing. His skin retained the traces of the harsh sun, his skin dry, his lips cracked. We'd went out together in a hunt earlier this morning.

He'd told me about his wishes.

There we were, two imperfect lumps of flesh gazing at the sky.

* * *

DAY BY DAY HE TOLD ME HIS DREAMS of freedom, of going back to war, of finding the lost insignia that was gone altogether with the disappearance of the Legion. "How would you define freedom?" I said: I would never know, since I was a slave.

_His_ slave.

He smiled. "Then imagine it. Envision yourself as a free man in Rome."

I told him I'd talk to many philosophers.

"Good," he said with a smile, "Actually, that's really good."

The summer sun was beating down on our skins. We frowned, from time to time we'd narrow our eyes.

Unlike him, my father had declined my thoughts harshly. As a child I'd told him I wanted to see the other face of the world. I would cross the Wall. I would invent knowledge.

He said I was cursed in the head.

* * *

LIVING WITH MY MASTER I realized that Romans were not all the same. I never told him, but I started respecting him in a way he'd never imagined before. He was a very opinionated man, too, there was a time where he'd slammed the table while debating against his uncle's friends to defend his father's honor against the rumors.

Sometimes he'd ask about my language. That was why he knew that I could assist him across the Wall. "The insignia must be there, the far-north." He always addressed my homeland that way, the far-north, it would sound distant. Distant, because I would suddenly become aware of the wide gap of our origins.

The far-north.

* * *

MY ROMAN MASTER, sometimes when I thought about him I touched myself at night when he was deep in sleep. I'd trace every inch of my body, feeling the warm flesh, the hardening organ as if some kind of gravity was inside it. I'd regained life that way. If only he knew what I was doing, and how everything had grown so much further across the limitations. Probably he would never know, my Roman master.

I would remain time I looked into it the mental images from last night would return to me, flashing before my eyes like distant thunders.

Every time they returned inevitably, I thought of my dreams, long-lost dreams. I wanted to talk to philosophers and invent knowledge. Then, I wanted to possess and be possessed by him.

Marcus Aquila. I loved the sound of his name, it evoked so many stirs in me.

"Esca?" he said, breaking the silence, "You seem so lost in thoughts nowadays, what could you be thinking of?"

"Freedom," I said.

He laughed. The same light, melodic laughter.

"Now that you've seen the world beyond the Wall, what do you think of it?"

"I couldn't say," I said, "I entered the world as a slave, which was not as what I'd dreamed of. My opinions would be entirely different."

He said nothing, still smiling.

I was wresting with the feeling that I wanted to be set free and the feeling that I wanted to be possessed. I looked at him, questioned myself: _Was this Roman a right person for such submission?_

"Esca, you've crossed the Wall." He said, "A different beginning doesn't always mean a different ending, just like a different opinion doesn't always mean a disagreement."

He took a thick wooden branch on the ground then started carving it.

The far-north. The way he always mentioned my homeland. The far-north. He was always distant even in his closeness, this Roman, probably he was supposed to be distant in reality also.

* * *

I TOUCHED MYSELF AGAIN THAT NIGHT, almost violently. I called his name over and over, as if I was inside some kind of trance.

Marcus. Marcus.

I came violently. I came as if I would, in any moment, explode with desire.

* * *

IN THE MORNING HE TOOK ME OUT AGAIN FOR A HUNT. He looked very happy, as if he'd discovered something in him that people couldn't see. His bad leg had gotten better. The time we got home he told me stories about the worlds he'd seen outside England.

The afternoon came. The happiness was something he was about to hide in himself until the time would come. I brought him his wine and fruits, cooked his meals, listened to his stories. When in the night, he finally told me what had caused in him so much joy, I sat there listening to him talking in low voice.

"I'm going to the far-north to find the Eagle." He said, closing the night's story, "That is the least I could do for my father."

* * *

LATER THAT NIGHT I STRIPPED MYSELF out of all clothes before him, right before he blew the last candle. The room was bathed in the cold lights of the moon, the wind carried such comfortable chill. Everything was right, as if someone had just arranged them together for a story worth-telling.

As if we were inside a story ourselves.

In the darkness I found myself.

He told me to come closer. I found myself under his gaze. He desired me as much as I desired him. His eyes said: 'I've been waiting for too long for this.'

My eyes must've had echoed the same. He embraced me right away.

* * *

HE KISSED ME, a long, languorous kiss.

My Roman lover, I wondered after tonight he'd be pleased if I called him that. Marcus to me: my _far-north_ lover?

He traced my flesh the way he traced the contours of his carvings. I never knew such pleasure existed, because nobody would be able to recount it perfectly unless they've experienced these themselves. There was the wind brushing my skin lightly. The cold lights. The _stars_. I breathed on his neck, breathing him in. He smelled of such manly sweat. He locked his lips on mine almost all the time. I said: "Come enter me."

I was probably dreaming, because the phrase was something I'd extracted out of a dream. Even if I was, this dream had, since long, merged itself into reality.


End file.
